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by togetherboth



Series: Tales of Studio 4 [3]
Category: Martin and Lewis (RPF)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Clothing Disparity, Established Relationship, Gambling, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love, M/M, Neck Kissing, Pining, Surprise Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27558190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togetherboth/pseuds/togetherboth
Summary: Dean's away making a movie and Jer's missing him something awful.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Series: Tales of Studio 4 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610122
Comments: 20
Kudos: 32





	1. Aches

**Author's Note:**

> Another [Tale of Studio 4](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610122), an au in which Dean and Jerry are forced to quit performing in the early 50's but stay together. I just can't quit these older boys.

_September 1965,  
A secret location, Monterey Bay, California._

_In a universe at a slight angle to this one._

The wind is starting to pick up, blowing cold salty air in from the ocean. He should really go back inside, but it’s very lovely out here in the velvety night. Ignoring the twinge in his back, Jerry leans forward and rests his elbows on the verandah railing, the weathered wood taking his weight with a soft creak. The Moon is full tonight and her light silvers the scrubby woodland enveloping the house. Far beyond the sea glitters under the stars. The sound of the waves in the distance beats a slow pulse beneath the rustling trees.

Too long at his desk today, yes. That was much too long, and with so little to show for it. He has one million things to do, and yet. Too long at the typewriter, too long filling the wastepaper basket. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and exhales a white plume of smoke into the cold night air. Too long missing Dean. He can’t concentrate on anything. Dean’s away in New York for six whole weeks, making a picture with Frankie. They’ve barely been apart for two of those weeks yet and already Jer’s aching for him.

It’s not just the sex he misses, although God knows he is sick to death of his own right hand. He misses little things, like the mornings when he’d creep downstairs at sunrise to catch Dean before he leaves for the links. He’d be pottering around the kitchen, softly singing to himself as he makes his coffee. Jer would creep up beside him and sneak into a hug around his middle, and Dean would tuck him close under his arm and kiss his sleepy brow and ask if he wanted to share his breakfast. And Jer would say yes because Dean’s coffee always tastes so much better than anything he makes himself, and the coffee he makes himself is really fucking good.

And when Dean was ready to leave, he’d kiss Jer’s mouth once and say,

“Be good.”

And Jer would say,

“I’m thirty-nine years old, I’ll be what I like.”

And Dean would say,

“Yes, but be good.”

And Jer would say,

“Okay.”

And his lips would still be tingling twenty minutes after Dean had gone.

He misses knowing that while he’s sequestered away working, Dean’s just out on the verandah reading the newspaper with his glasses on, or falling asleep over a script, or just watching the sun go down over the ocean. He misses Dean wandering into his office half-dressed to ask if this pair of socks is blue or brown, because his filing system’s got muddled and his poor colourblind eyes can’t tell the difference. He misses Dean rubbing his back for him when it aches. He misses Dean touching his face when he’s angry and frustrated, and gently asking what’s gone wrong. He just misses Dean. He misses his voice, his touch, his scent. He misses him with his body, like an animal. He just _misses_ him. He feels every contour of the empty space next to him where Dean’s supposed to be. The absence hurts like a pulled tooth.

 _Oh dear_ , he tells the Moon bitterly, scrubbing a weary hand across his eyes. _I am in danger of becoming upset._

He stubs out his cigarette and takes one last calming look out to sea. Only a few weeks more till Dean comes home, and then he won’t be alone anymore. Only a few weeks. Patience. Retrieving his cane from its resting place against the verandah rail, he turns and makes his way slowly through the French windows and back into the house.


	2. Comfort

Jer loves this house. He was the one who found the plot, negotiated the purchase, chose the materials, worked with the architect, designed the interior and got them moved in, yet he still thinks of it as Dean’s house because he did it all for him. It’s so secret, completely invisible from the highway, buried deep in the thickly wooded hillside that weaves through crags and rocks down to the Pacific.

Carefully locking the French doors behind him he moves through his office, switching off lamps as he goes. He throws the little cover over the typewriter: enough for tonight, enough. His back is hurting. Maybe later he’ll allow himself a couple aspirin, as a treat. He feels the phantom touch of Dean’s strong hands massaging the sore muscles, warming them back to life. Dean’s naturally good at anything involving his hands, oh boy is he ever, but he did study with Jer’s physiotherapist a little to make sure he wasn’t doing more harm than good. It turned his touches into something a bit more refined than a boxer’s rub-down, and Jer thanks God for it every day. No chance of such relief tonight though.

The big kitchen is lit only by a single Tiffany lamp, which sits on the battered wooden refectory table running alongside the huge windows that overlook the ocean. Slowly in the dim light, Jer fills the kettle and sets it on the stove top to boil. 

Gripping the counter for support he stoops to one of the lower drawers, roots around for a moment and emerges with an old hot water bottle in a knitted cover. He really hasn’t much energy left tonight, but he hopes that if he takes a bath and then lies on his belly in bed with this hot water bottle moulded to his lower back, then the warmth of the water will soothe his aches and pains anyway.

While he waits for the kettle to boil he reaches up into the high cupboard next to the stove, pulling out a little tin patterned with white flowers. Inside is Dean’s tea. He doesn’t even like tea generally but this one is special, he gets it from the little deli in town that imports it straight from Italy. Sounds fancy but it’s not really, it’s just tiny dried chamomile flowers, clenched tight into dry buds that unfurl in the hot water. Dean swears by this tea when he can’t sleep, and Jer is anticipating another long night. God, he hates to sleep alone. He shakes a few of the flowers into their little glass teapot, ready for drenching.

If he’s honest, his back isn’t even that all that awful tonight, relatively speaking; it’s been a whole lot worse. He’s just stiff from hunching over his desk, and lonely, and heartsick. He knows fine well that he’s just trying to comfort himself because Dean isn’t here to do it. So, he will drink his tea, take his bath, put on his pyjamas and get through another night by himself. Leaning heavily on the counter he thinks, _just get through tonight. Just get through. One down, twenty-nine to go. Jesus Christ._


	3. Limousine

It’s 2am. Jerry is sound asleep. 

He doesn’t hear the sleek black limousine pull into the driveway, or discreetly sweep away a minute later. He doesn’t hear the key in the front door, or the alarm bleep as it’s disarmed. He doesn’t see the small glow of the hall lamp when it’s quietly switched on. He doesn’t hear the shoes slipped off, or the foot on the stair.

He doesn’t hear the bedroom door gently open to reveal Dean, backlit by soft light from the hall. Doesn’t see his loose tie or his five o’clock shadow or his tired eyes. Or his smile at finding Jer so deeply asleep. 

Dean approaches the bed, too aware of his footsteps and the rustling of his own clothes in the silent room. It was blowy outside, wind rushing through the sheltering trees and merging with the crashing waves, but in here all is quiet, still and calm. He’d intended to wash up first, maybe drink some water. At least take his coat off. But he doesn’t do any of those things, they all flew from his head the second he caught sight of Jer.

Jer lies on his back, one hand resting softly on his chest while his other arm lies on the pillow, curved above his head. The end wall of the bedroom is virtually all glass, with big doors leading out to a balcony that overlooks a panorama of nothing but treetops and ocean. In the moonlight streaming through, Dean can make the shape of him out quite clearly. It looks like he’s had a restless night: the bedclothes are all rumpled and half the pillows have been thrown to the floor. There’s an aspirin bottle and an empty cup on the nightstand. In the dim light he can see that Jer’s brows are drawn together in a slight frown, even in sleep. Dean feels a little guilty about waking him, but the need for him that he feels in the pit of his stomach is stronger than his conscience. He tries to be good, but he's never said he succeeds.


	4. Prize

Ohhh, it’s been so long since he was last kissed awake. Days and days and days. It feels _so_ wonderful. There’s weight on him slightly, off to the side a little but pressing him down into the mattress just right; there’s a hand gently touching his neck and warm lips against his own. Keeping his eyes closed so the dream won’t end, Jer reaches up and winds his arms around Dream Dean’s neck, pulling him even closer. He tilts his head back and breathes deep as Dream Dean nuzzles rough kisses down into his neck, already plotting how to coax him further into bed without accidentally waking himself up. Perhaps if he tries real hard he can spin this dream out for hours. Dream Dean hits a particularly sweet spot on his throat, shocking out of him an embarrassingly needy gasp.

“Do you greet all the burglars like this?” Dream Dean says into his neck, sounding amused. “‘Cos we’re gonna get popular.”

“Mmmm,” Jer’s too lost in sensation to notice at first, but then he realises what an odd thing that is to say. “Wait, what?” He opens his eyes. Dean’s still there.

Jer moves his hands down to Dean's shoulders. Solid. Still there. He reaches out to the bedside lamp and flicks it on. He's still there. Real.

“HOLY SHIT!”

He wishes he could sit up quickly enough to throw himself at Dean and tackle him into bed, but his damn back won’t let him. Instead he just throws his arms around him again and says,

“Fuck, Paul!”

Dean laughs, still muffled in the crook of his neck. “Give me a second, I only just got here.”

“I’m so… oh God,” Dean’s still kissing him. He hasn't been touched in weeks and now this? It's overwhelming. “I’m so fucking happy you’re h-ahhhh-ere! Here. What h-happened?”

“Mmm?” Dean lifts his head, distracted for a second. “Oh I, uh, won you in a card game.” He flicks open the top button of Jer’s pyjama shirt like that settles it, then gets back to the neck kissing.

“You _what_?”

“Won you,” kiss, “in a card game,” kiss. He eases open another two buttons, puts his hand inside and adds, ”Seven-card stud,” as if that was the part that needed clarifying.

“What.…" For once in his life, Jer can't think what to say. "Wait, who lost me?”

“Frank did. No, that’d be silly. He lost the _game_. Pretty badly, as it happens.” Dean sighs, reluctantly accepting that he’s going to be forced to explain. He gets comfortable, resting his weight on one elbow while his free hand idly draws fingertip swirls on Jer’s chest. "He was losing the shirt off his back, so we went kind of beyond double or quits: winner gets one wish granted." Dean shakes his head sadly, "never learns, that kid."

“So, I win the game, fair and square. He throws down his hand and he says to me, ‘Okay, you dumb dago, name your prize’. And I think well… what do I want most in the whole world? Frank’s king of the fixers, after all. I could ask for anything. And so I say, ‘Frankie baby, all I really want is one night with my boy. S’all I want.’ 'Cause I'm so lonesome for you, see?" 

He pauses for a second, then casually gets back to opening the last of Jer’s shirt buttons as he speaks. “So he grumbles a little while, like he does, and then he says, ‘Fuck it, take the jet.’ Called me a sentimental ol’ motherfucker too, but I still love him.” 

Jer’s just smiling up at him, eyes filling.

“Oh well, what’s this now?” Dean cups his face with one hand, brushing tears away with his thumb. “Nothing to cry about, sweetheart.”

Jer turns his whole face into Dean’s hand and kisses his palm.

“We only got one night?”

“One night. They need me back on set tomorrow. They're sending a car.”

“I missed you. A lot.”

“Missed you too,” Dean replies. “My Jer.” He moves his hand up to stroke into his soft hair. “How’d I ever do without you, huh?”

“Oh, terrible.”

“Dreadful.”

“Very bad.”

“I don’t know how I got out of bed in the morning.”

“I don’t know why you even bothered getting _in_.”

“Now that’s a good question.”

“Speaking of which, are you? Getting in.” Jer bats his eyelashes very prettily. “I’ll make it worth your while, mister.”

“Well, I did win you fair and square after all.”

“That’s very true.”


	5. Sandalwood

Jer’s not really sure where his pyjama shirt went. Well, he knows _where_ it went: it’s over there on the floor. He’s just not sure how it got there. Dean’s a wizard, magicked it away.

At first Dean seemed to be content with just unbuttoning it and pushing the silky fabric aside, kissing Jer’s collarbones and his chest. Then he moved down to his ribs and his sides, rubbing scratchy stubble against the soft skin, tickling him and distracting him and making him giggle and then before he knew it, whoosh! No shirt.

Dean’s fully on top of him now, lying between his open legs and giving his sternum some love. Jer tugs gently on his curls and wonders if he’s realised that he hasn’t even taken his coat off yet. Every so often Jer has to haul Dean upwards, remind him that he also has a mouth, and it would like to do some kissing too, please. Then all he has to do is slip Dean a little tongue to make him growl and press down. It’s still thrilling, even after all these years.

He loves, loves the way Dean gives so much attention to every part of him, not even just the normally sexy bits. Dean's a little kooky. Ever lain in bed with someone and stroked their hair while they kiss and nuzzle the inside of your elbow? Jer has, regularly, and he thoroughly recommends it. Really, five star review. Stellar. The way Dean makes love to him gets him feeling something like a treasure chest full of jewels, or maybe a box of beautiful chocolates. Something made up of tiny little pieces, all different and desirable in their own way. Each worthy of consideration. He’s never, ever been with anyone else who made him feel something even close to that. Only his Dean. 

Dean pauses his kissing for a second and looks up at him. Says,

“You smell even better than usual, did you take a bath?”

“Why, is there one missing?”

Dean’s head thunks down onto Jer’s chest and he groans.

“Sorry,” Jer says. “Old habits.”

“Very old.”

“It’s sandalwood,” he says, smoothing his hands along Dean’s shoulders. The soft wool of his coat is still a little damp from the night air. “Meant to be good for muscle tension, that’s what Shirley said anyway. I dropped some in the tub because my big Italian massage therapist wasn’t here to attend to me. Smells nice, don’t it Paul?”

“Yeah, don’t it Paul.” 

Ooh, that’s a good sign. When Dean starts just repeating whatever he says it usually means he’s getting so focused on what he’s doing to Jer that he’s on the way to becoming nonverbal. And Jer knows from experience that when Dean can’t use his words he gets very, very good at finding other ways to communicate.


	6. Hungry

“Are you, um… Paul? Paul. Up here.” Dean raises his head from Jer’s chest, looking a little glassy eyed. Jer plucks at his sleeve. “Are you planning on taking any of this off? Ever?” 

Dean looks at him steadily for a long moment. He glances down at Jer’s hand, back up at his face and down at his hand again. Laboriously he pulls himself all the way up Jer’s body until they’re finally face-to-face. Taking all the time in the world he leans in, gives his mouth a slow, deep kiss, pulls away, and says,

“No.”

Then he retreats back down Jer’s body again and gets right on with pressing feather-light kisses across the very top of his stomach, where he feels so ticklish and vulnerable that every touch is making him shiver.

“Anybody’d think… hee! Tickles, Paul… anybody’d think you want to get me naked while you stay dressed or something.” Dean’s not looking, but Jer narrows his eyes at him anyway. “That’d be crazy, right Paul?”

“Oh sure, crazy.” Dean says, moving a little lower. “Such things you think of, Jer,” he tuts.

He keeps on with his kissing for a while then gets his palm involved, pressing it flat to Jer’s stomach and shifting it around, sliding it over to different places almost like he’s looking for something. Jer watches him, curious.

“Hmm, what do I feel in here?” Dean says. He frowns and presses his ear to Jer’s stomach for a second, then resumes explorations with his hand. “Is it…? No, can’t be. And yet… I think it’s, hmm… _my flower tea_.”

“Ha!” Jer’s beginning to giggle; he just loves when Dean gets goofy like this. “No way, you cannot feel that your tea is in there!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have drunk the cup,” Dean says, and Jer bursts out laughing. Dean carries on regardless, “Hmm, I feel the outline right here. Gee that’s somethin’ kid.” 

Grinning up at Jer he looks so pleased with himself at having made him laugh. He strokes his warm hand all the way down Jer’s side, pushing right under his waistband and rounding out the curve of his hip, gripping him tight there under the fabric. He sighs and says,

“Good lord but I missed you something fierce, Jer.”

And suddenly Jer can’t catch his breath.

Dean can be surprisingly surprising in bed. Especially for a man who’s so consistent he’s barely changed since his twenties. These lightning strikes of emotion though, the ones that only seem to happen when they’re between the sheets, they’re new. Every now and then Dean will actually _articulate_ something he’s feeling and Jer just doesn’t, he can’t. He can’t get used to it. It makes him want to cry, which is hardly appropriate behaviour when the love of your life’s just been kind enough to stick his hand down your pants. 

_That’s_ one thing that hasn’t changed though. When they’re like this, Dean’s in charge. That at least is constant, and just wonderful as far Jer’s concerned. Control? Pah! He doesn’t want it! Dean can have it _all_. Sex is the singular part of his life where he’s actively trying to get rid of it, for christ’s sake. For instance, Jer learned early that if he’s ever in the mood for a nice bit of manhandling all he has to do is earnestly try, just _try_ , to tackle Dean, and before he can say _bubbe, wait!_ he’ll be on his back with 170 pounds of Italy’s finest pinning him to the mattress. Works perfectly every time. 

Another constant these days is that Dean always gives his tummy a lot of attention, like kisses, little bites and sucks, just like he’s doing now. Sometimes even (to his own lazy rhythm, always on the back end of the beat) pushing his warm tongue into his navel like a promise. This is all because Jer once expressed some regret that he was filling out and getting softer around the middle, not as taut and youthful as he once was. He’s still pretty lean and he guesses he looks okay, but he manages to project a lot more confidence about his appearance than he actually feels. He looks so different to the way he used to. Dear god his body has changed, what with age, and injury, and the marks left by getting through the injury. His spine is a web of scars that he both loves and hates in equal measure. 

Dean has never seemed fazed by any of it though. He just keeps on touching Jer as he always has: like he’s something lovely. Like he can’t not touch him. It’s astonishing. Jer still responds as he always has: moving against him, asking him to please, _please_ do it some more. Dean always does. He’ll run his hands all over Jer’s bare skin, face buried hot in his neck, kissing and biting and whispering,

“How’d you get so delicious, huh?”

He does feel delicious when Dean says that, truly. He remembers their earliest, hungriest days together, the days when they were constantly starving for each other. Back then there were a few times when Dean properly bit him, broke the skin even. Oh, the guilt! Those big brown eyes so full of real sorrow. Jer, who fully admits that he might have a little kink or three around that kind of thing, absolutely adored it of course, grieved the bruises when they faded. But Dean? Brought every one of his Catholic faculties to the party and went silent with shame, for days. He’d press his soft lips so kindly to the mark he’d left behind, as if love could stitch the wound. It could, Jer thought.

Jer solved it in the end: every time Dean bit him in the heat of the moment, he’d just wait for the next round and then bite him right back. Dean didn’t get a kick out of it like he did, but it seemed to satisfy his notions of penitence. That real, hard biting doesn’t often make an appearance anymore, but when it does, boy! Jer’s in heaven.

He still has an actual scar from Dean’s teeth though, right on the top of his left shoulder blade. You can almost see it if he wears a shirt with a wide enough neck. A small, genuine scar; the only one he has that he fully and unreservedly loves. He doesn’t notice it often, of course, in such an awkward place. But every once in a while he’ll crane around in the mirror just to make sure it’s still there. 

Sometimes he fantasises about being asked what that mark is, so stark against his tan skin, white as the teeth that made it. _Well, buddy, I’m glad you asked. It’s from my partner. You see, what happened was he was fucking me like he owned me and I made him feel so good his consciousness switched off until all that was left was his wolf-brain, and his wolf-brain said ‘MINE’._ Ha! If Jer ever wants to single-handedly end their careers and get a talk show thrown off the air at the same time, he knows exactly what to do.

Dean’s hand moves lower on his hip, thumb tracing the crease of his thigh. The brush of his prickly wool sleeve against the sensitive skin there is sending little glittering sparks skittering all through Jer, the contrast making him feel even more naked than he actually is. Exactly the reaction Dean must've wanted, damn him. The movement of Dean’s hand as it strokes downwards is tugging his pyjama pants away from his body, pulling the waistband dangerously low on his hips. Jer basks in the attention, pushing his arms up over his head and bracing against the headboard as he stretches luxuriously, arching up against Dean for a moment so he can feel how hard he’s making his boy. 

“Bubbe,” he says, biting his lower lip now he’s got Dean’s attention back on his face. “I missed you too.”

Dean’s hand slips around to the small of his back, pulling him nearer still and then keeping them pressed tight together, lying close on their sides. He feels the starched cotton of Dean’s shirt brushing his chest as Dean slides one leg tight between his own. He lets himself roll his hips again, just once and oh, damn, that feels even better with Dean’s hard thigh to rub up against. It’s so difficult to stop moving but he forces himself, saying,

“Feel how much I missed you?”

“Show me,” Dean says and, fuck if Jer can’t feel his own pupils dilate.


End file.
